


Maybe, Maybe Not

by dendrite_blues



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 1940s, Crossdressing, Dancing, Developing Relationship, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Dates, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Teen Romance, roleplaying kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 10:40:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17303105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dendrite_blues/pseuds/dendrite_blues
Summary: In most measurable ways Steve's a very usual kind of guy. He enjoys baseball and stamp collecting and going to the cinema like any boy his age. It just so happens that he also likes slipping into girl's shoes.-Written for theMCU Kink Meme on Dreamwidthprompt: It's not that Steve is trans or anything, but there was something thrilling about dressing as a girl and going out with Bucky, and being free to hold hands and dance and share an ice cream together, without anyone judging them. Both Steve and Bucky are underage in this fic, but I've chosen not to tag since it is not the focus of the story.





	Maybe, Maybe Not

**Author's Note:**

> There is a version with a sex scene only available on Dreamwidth, linked in the summary. Go to there if you want to read the NC-17 version. :)

Steve doesn’t want to be a girl. However it might look, and at times it looks pretty damning, he's not like that. Sure most guys don’t go around Coney Island hanging off their best friend's arm in the mother's old dresses, but he’s not one of those third gender types. In most measurable ways he's a very usual kind of guy. He enjoys baseball and stamp collecting and going to the cinema like any boy his age. It just so happens that he also likes slipping into girl's shoes.

If someone held a gun up to his head and gave him the option between oblivion and a reason, he’s not sure what he would say. He just likes it. The fabric feels nice, and the air on his legs is refreshing, novel. The way the wind makes a skirt play around his knees sends bubbles of happiness up his belly that are unlike anything else. He loves the way the fibers of the wig curl around his ears and cover the sharp lines of his cheeks.

The women in the shops always admire his slim figure and small feet. And of course he burns for the way it makes Bucky look at him, like he’s the Rosetta Stone and the lost city of Atlantis and the great Hope diamond all in one. Precious, unusual, fascinating.

And yes, he would be remiss to leave out the characteristic thrill of deviancy. Like spending the nickel that was meant for the newspaper on a soda or eating the last cookie in the jar, it does bring a certain tingle of danger and rebellion up his spine. But that’s only a sliver of it, one note in a chord. It's not about the clothes, not really, it's about how much fun they have going around and pretending they aren't shabby kids from Brooklyn.

Sighing, he sits on the dented mattress in his bedroom and slips on the thick heeled Oxfords Bucky bought him on their last excursion. Which is still another uncomfortable part of it—they both know they don’t have the money for this, and yet they can’t seem to stop. Every Sunday they wake up and stare at each other over dry, crumbly bread and hot cereal and try to talk each other out of window shopping. Until one of them loses their nerve and starts talking the other one _into it_.

Today it was Bucky. He wanted to see the new heels. Steve stares at them, gut churning in the usual heady mix of excitement, elation, and dread. For some reason he’s desperate for Bucky to like them. He selected every piece of his outfit to compliment the shoes. To hopefully prove Bucky's dollar wasn't wasted.

The heels are nothing fancy, but nothing fancy is an extravagant luxury for them. They’re modest working girl’s lace ups made of heavy canvas with brogue toe caps. Dainty. Cute. He’s never dared to wear anything with open toes or heels for fear that his ugly man’s feet would give him away. But now he has these, and even in their simplicity they are lovely. They make his chest flutter like Bucky’s widest smile.

Speak of the devil, Bucky knocks on his door. He jumps, feeling silly for daydreaming.

“Y-yeah?” he says, and stutters when he realizes he forgot to pitch his voice higher. He tries again. “Come in.”

“You decent?” Bucky jokes, leaning his head through the door and playfully averting his eyes. As if they haven't seen each other naked a thousand times in baths and doctor's visits and swimming pools.

“Strictly speaking, yes.” Steve murmurs. He can’t manage anything louder than a whisper in his falsetto. The door creaks softly as Bucky steps inside.

“Aw, look at you. All cleaned up.”

“Keep talking like that and you’ll be going out on your own.” Steve rolls his eyes, and makes himself lay his hands over his lap instead of crossing them like he normally would.

“Oh, ho. The rose has thorns!”

“And a sweet tooth.”

Bucky grins, and puts his hands in his pockets. He’s handsome. Always is, but it’s different when they go out. The first time he didn’t make a big deal of it, he was just humoring Steve’s scheme. But then those soldiers came and tried to tempt him from Bucky’s arm and curiously the next week his friend showed up in a three-piece. One day of parading around town like they had money and they were both hooked. It’s amazing how much better clerks treat supposedly rich customers.

“Was that a hint?” Bucky raises his eyebrows, and just the sight of him standing in the doorway in his Sunday best has Steve slipping into character.

His eyes flick down and a shy smile spreads on his face without him even meaning to. It’s not hard to act demure standing beside someone that collected and genial. He stands and fusses with the blue patterned dress, watches it swish around his legs and checks the buttons to makes sure they are all done up correctly.

“It was a statement.” Steve says airily. He fusses with the felt hat that he’s still not sold on and hopes like hell they aren’t caught. They’ve gotten away with this so far, but luck can only run out.

“The soda fountain it is.” Bucky replies. Stepping closer, he cups Steve’s cheek and tucks a strand of fake hair behind his ear. “You want a malt again?”

“Just a soda.” Steve says quietly as heat crawls up his neck. They’re still so new at this, at indulging the desire that’s grown between them since their ages hit double digits and hair started showing up in bizarre places. It doesn’t seem right, how strongly his body reacts to every tiny thing Bucky does. But he's stopped fighting it. He knows he's powerless to resist his wise-ass jokes and those gentle giant arms that seem to get bigger every day.

His own growth disappoints him, but since they’ve stopped running from this simmering attraction it’s become a blessing in disguise. A bigger man couldn’t wear these clothes and walk arm in arm with another man down the pier. He couldn’t go from store to store letting his fella dress him up in flouncy dresses or share a soda out of two straws. And he certainly couldn’t melt when his date called him _doll_ and _dame_ and _gorgeous_ like Steve always does.

Shaking off his nerves, he slips his hand in the crook of Bucky’s elbow and kisses his shoulder.

“Lead the way, _Jimmy_.” he says, and grins when Bucky rolls his eyes. He hates his fake name; although by all accounts anything beats _Stephanie,_ which Bucky stuck him with out of revenge. Regrettably there are only so many places they can afford to go, so the staff of the various establishments started to remember them pretty quickly. Names once given in jest got stuck, and there’s nothing either of them can do about it now.

When they arrive the soda fountain is buzzing with energy. Boys and girls their age cluster around the bar, asking the mixer rapid-fire questions and talking loudly. Families fresh out of church service sit around the front tables while their children chatter and laugh. He loves coming here on Sundays, even on days like this where the most they can afford is one bottle between them. It’s so alive, so sunny and full of color.

Georgie the cashier is stuck on him, and that always makes for a fun time. Bucky detests the guy, even though his weakness for Steve’s eyes gets them five cents off every drink. It’s no different today.

“Hey you two, welcome in.” Georgie greets cheerfully as he pours two sodas at once. “My you look swell today, Miss Stephanie.”

He doesn’t trust his voice much in public, so he just nods and smiles. Bucky grumbles under his breath.

“Just a soda today, Georgie. I don’t want _Stephie_ to get a brain freeze.”

A stab of frustration shoots up, but he tries not to let it show. Instead, he hops up on the stool and crosses his legs, and again admires his new shoes.

It really was nice of Bucky to buy them, he hadn’t even dared to ask. In the store he’d been mesmerized, sitting on the bench for far too long and admiring the way they made his feet look so slender. And Bucky had fished out his pocket book. Two weeks later he’s still smitten.

That’s the reason he can’t quit. Because no matter what’s happening Bucky indulges him with a shrug and a pensive tilt to his lip, happy to pay whatever he can to make Steve feel special. Georgie returns with their usual bottle of cherry cola, two red and white straws swooping around the neck as he presents it to them. 

“After you, angel.” Bucky says. He really can’t resist playing the prince. Saccharine stuff like that should sound cheesy, but the way he says it anyone would believe him. He’s just so sincere, and Steve likes it too much to bust his chops.

He worries during times like this. Times when they’re leaning close on the bar and their straws are only a few inches apart. When Bucky’s eyes seem to glimmer in the afternoon sun and he thinks he might get lost in them. He wonders if any of this is real. If he’s fallen in love with an illusion, an idealized man pulled from Bucky’s imagination to parallel Steve’s own blushing ingenue?

Although he knows he’s dropping the ball, he can’t make himself answer. His mouth won’t open.

Even if it’s all a fiction, would that be such a bad thing? The stab of hurt in his gut has his hands shaking in his lap. Because yes, yes it would be bad. Real bad. If that’s the case then one day he will have to choose between being Stephanie with Jimmy or Steve, alone. He doesn’t want to be Stephanie. Not all the time anyway.

Bucky holds both his hands in one of his big ones and tips a straw in Steve’s direction.

“Go on, doll, no need to be shy.”

He drinks, just to avoid talking. Not for all the money in the world could he explain how the hell they got here, or how it somehow got this far out of hand. Perverse is what it is. He’s a guy old enough to go to war wearing a wig and pantyhoes and mooning over another man. There are places for guys like him, they call them asylums.

They never should have let it go this far, but they did and now he’s stuck. He’s in love with his best friend, or maybe Jimmy. The man with the winning smile could be Bucky or it could be a fantasy, and he’s increasingly sure he doesn’t want to know.

Blissfully unaware, Georgie wipes the counter with a terrycloth and flips it over his shoulder.

“Lordy, you two are something else. Where the heck did you score a dame like her?”

Bucky sets his hand on the back of Steve’s chair and his heart flies into his throat. It’s a miracle he doesn’t shoot bubbles into the soda and send it foaming all over the counter. He gives him another one of those prince charming looks and does the one-shoulder shrug that all the gumshoes in the talkies do.

“Girl next door. Just got lucky, I guess.” Bucky says.

It ought to look affected but it doesn’t, or at least not to him.  His face heats up  when Bucky’s fingers brush his back. Georgie huffs, polishing a glass on his apron.

“I’ll say. You want anything else? My shift’s about over.”

“I think we’ll take our time with this one.” Bucky replies, smooth and relaxed even as his foot brushes up Steve’s leg under the counter.  A surprised grunt escapes his mouth before he can stop it—too deep for Stephanie. Georgie stops in his tracks, his eyes narrowing.

Without missing a beat, Bucky raises his fist to his mouth and coughs.

“Excuse me,” he fake chokes. Easily, so easily. How is it he always knows just what to do? “Went down the wrong way.”

Suspicious eyes track between the two of them, and Steve sucks on the straw like his life depends on it. Georgie’s mouth slacks, but he nods.

“Y-yeah. Hate it when that happens.”

Bucky mimes a gradual recovery, and Steve reluctantly rubs his back.

“Alright, sweetheart?” Steve whispers, terrified now of his own voice and cringing internally as the pet name slips out while he’s distracted. _Sweetheart_. Next it will be sugar or sweetie pie or baby and he will have to sew his lips shut for his own good.

“M’fine.”

“You sure?”

“Nothin’ to worry about.” Bucky grunts, straightening up in his seat.

“Maybe we should go home anyway.”

He’s not sure he’s ever said that many words at once, dressed like he is. He’s stiff from his shoulders to his toes.

“Not yet.” Bucky’s eyes widen, his jaw slack. “We just got here.”

“My brother’s band is playing down the road at Richie’s.” Georgie suggests.

“He plays?”

“Yup, a big band. Here.” he pulls out a pen and scratches a message on a napkin. “This ought to get you in. If you want to.”

For better or worse, Bucky wants to. His face lights up, and Steve’s mind gets away from him as he watches handsome lips spread over perfect teeth.

He imagines it, the probable sights blinding any sense of caution. Bouncing music and beaming lights, a big parquet dance floor full of swaying couples. The room spinning while he falls into laughing brown eyes. If he hadn’t already drank more than half the bottle he would chug the rest in one pull. But it wouldn’t be fair, so instead he pushes the soda to Bucky’s chest and makes a hurry up gesture.

“I take it that’s a yes.” Bucky laughs.

Steve smiles until he’s afraid he might get lipstick on his teeth. Nods.

Folding the napkin into his suit pocket, Bucky sucks until the straw rattles and drops two nickels on the counter.

“Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go.”

* * *

The hall isn’t quite what he imagined, but the napkin gets them inside and Steve is grateful just for that. Neither of them have ever been to a place like this.

The ladies on the floor stomp and spin like clydesdales and all at once he’s glad they never thought to do this before. He only recently got the hang of heels.

Billiard tables fill most of the space, but there’s also a low stage full of musicians playing a chipper melody. Booze passes freely between the barkeep and the older men at the far end and both if their eyes go wide as half dollars.

Bucky raises his hand to clap him on the back, and catches himself. Awkwardly he jerks and instead runs fingers down Steve’s spine to rest at the small of his back. A feeling almost like an itch spreads from the contact, a tight pressure that yearns for more, closer, lower. His breath catches.

“I don’t know how to follow.” he confesses, straining to be heard without shifting into a deeper tone. The room moves too fast around them, as though time has decided to become relative instead of linear. Bucky leans in so their mouths are beside each other’s ears. Over the shrill cries of trumpets, his voice sounds low and rich as molasses.

“Course you do, you’ve been copying my moves your whole life.” Bucky scans his face and a lazy smirk turns his eyes to devious slits. “It’s easy, just keep your peepers on me and let your feet do the rest.”

And with that a hand cups his own and throws him into a disorienting spin. Colors and shapes fly by as the music swells. The fervor of brass instruments override his doubts, and true to Bucky’s promise his feet find their way.

It’s far from graceful, an inexcusable disgrace to the art of dance, but he doesn’t fall down. In the whirl of chaos and light, the only constants are the mahogany brown of Bucky’s hair and the comforting firmness of his hands pushing and pulling Steve through dips and twirts and too-short embraces.

He feels drunk, or something close to it. They’ve only tried liquor once. It wasn’t for him, but he hasn’t forgotten the curious feeling of floating and falling simultaneously. His face smiles without his permission and a nervous yelp of laughter escapes between an exhale and the following inhale.

It lasts forever, and yet once the song fades away he feels hung on a moment, keenly aware of what a very short time it was. He’s breathless, sweat beading under his wig and surely his makeup must be smeared, but he feels lighter than air and completely lost in Bucky’s atmosphere. His companion is no different, panting and swaying with eyes glazed in bewildered glee.

“That was great.” Bucky gushes, and Steve wonders if they’ve made a mistake. He looks awed—lovestruck—if he had to choose a word. Just thinking it feels like tripping into an ocean.

Who are they right now, what are they doing? If there ever was a point of no return, surely they crossed it when their chests pressed together and their lips parted in bresthless elation. Their eyes met after a particularly disorienting spin and he wanted so badly, for a stretched, timeless second, to be kissed deep and passionately in front of God and everyone.

He takes too long to answer. Bucky’s smile slumps.

“Wasn’t it?” he asks, the rest of his face following his down turned lips in awful, poorly hidden uncertainty.

“No, no, it was great–” Steve struggles to keep his voice light and breathy. “What the hell are we doing, Buck?”

“What we always do. You did feel that right? Just now?”

Steve’s voice cracks when he opens his mouth to answer. Without a care for how it looks he grabs Bucky by the lapel and drags him to an alcove at the back of the hall. Glancing over his shoulder, he puts his back into a corner and pulls Bucky close. His friend’s eyes are stormy, breathing erratic through a tight, unconvincing smile.

“Didn’t we?” he asks, pleads really. Chills crawl up Steve’s sides.

He feels like poison, making Bucky look so unsure. He’s supposed to be the confident one, the one that sails through life without a trace of doubt. Steve sighs in frustration and forces himself to let go of Bucky’s collar.

“Technically Stephanie and Jimmy had fun.” he says cautiously, averting his eyes.

Bucky leans so close it’s impossible not to look. He’s afraid, so clearly afraid, and that rips Steve’s heart out of his chest. Then his words register and Bucky’s face twists into a smug kind of amusement.

“What are you talking about? We are Stephanie and Jimmy.”

“No, we’re _playing_ them.”

“I’m not.”

Bucky blinks. Hope flares in Steve’s chest.

Even if his friend’s words were less telling, his gaze would say everything just as clearly. Bare desire burns there, his pupils wide and black with arousal, and when his hand slides up Steve’s chest there’s no confusing the touch for anything but what it is.

“The only game I’ve been playing is the one where I pretend I know how to make you happy.”

“You’ve always known that.” Steve frowns, confused. Doesn’t Bucky realize what he does to him? How his every move and facial tick make his body burn and want to lean closer? He’s made a terrible mistake if Bucky really doesn’t know how badly he wants him.

The band starts up another tune to the jubilant approval of the dancers, and Steve can’t believe what he’s about to do. Licking his lips, he tilts his head up and takes a final step closer, his hand snaking around the back of Bucky’s neck and pulling him close.

Chest to chest his friend is a pulsing tower of warmth and solidity, so handsome and in control that it makes his knees weak. He has to stand on his toes to reach, and even then it’s only the barest brush of lips, just a graze of sensitive skin until Bucky bends to make it deeper. He’s never done this before, has no idea what to do besides pucker up and press hard like they do in the pictures.

Warm breath puffs against his face and Bucky retreats. Hissing laughter accompanies a fond smile. His stomach plummets. Did he do it wrong? Was it bad? To his horror Bucky snorts even harder at his distress.

“Don’t purse your lips so hard.” he chuckles, hands travelling the rest of the way up Steve’s shoulders and neck to brace him gently around his ears.

He wants to protest, to ask which floozy stole Bucky’s first kiss from him, but the next one comes too soon. This time it’s soft. Sweet.

Something clicks into place. A quiet revelation, as Bucky tilts his head ever so slightly and aligns their lips in a perfect caress that sends shivers all the way to Steve’s toes.

Since he was a kid he’s watched the femme fatales wrap their arms around the gruff but soft-hearted detectives and wondered what could possibly be that good about slobbering all over someone’s mouth. Now, with his nose brushing Bucky’s cheek and the smell of his skin mixing with the faint aroma of cherry cola on his breath, he feels enlightened.

They break apart, and he only stops long enough to drag in a deep breath and tug Bucky back in, lips sucking and kneading and suddenly hungry now that he has a way to express the feelings that have been churning in his gut for weeks and weeks and weeks. Unable to control himself, he runs his fingers up scratchy sideburns to dig into Bucky’s neatly trimmed hair and tugs him as close as they can get.

Bucky’s hands are everywhere, like they’ve broken the seal on something previously locked away and now they can’t be stopped. With a deep inhale and an obscene sort of sound Bucky pulls away, his eyes pinching shut with the need to fight his own instincts. Dazed as he is, Steve still doesn’t miss the judgemental stares of the bartender, the man in the bowler hat near the door, the bassist playing with only one eye on his sheetmusic.

“People are staring.” he gasps.

Glancing around for himself, Bucky stiffens and hurries to fix his suit.

“Crap, your right. C’mon doll, we better get outta–” Bucky stops, panicks.

“I don’t mind—” Steve says in a rush, touching his lip absently as his brain finally absorbs the pleasant, lingering tingling. “The nice things you say. I kind of like them.”

Bucky’s shoulders drop and he lets out a big sigh of relief.

“Then let’s go home...sweetheart.”

“O-okay.” 

Steve smiles shyly, sliding his hand in the wrinkles of Bucky’s elbow.

He still doesn't want to be a girl, doesn’t want to play quiet and demure longer than a few hours, but it's not so bad to be treated like a lady. Although they've already done this a handful of times, he knows he'll always remember this differently. It’s not a farce or a game.

It’s a date. Their first date.


End file.
